Scarred: A Knight Is Made By That Which He Protects: Wyheree
An enormous man, far taller than any to be messed with, passed from guard to guard, informant to informant, camp to camp. His dealings in his hands, coming out from his shady garb of the cloak and dagger sort. Such was the nature of covertness; such was the nature of the Lily of the Valley: an elite order of faceless agents, no longer valuable when it was known who they truly were.
But this man was known well. Havelast Dagger Sasc. An Adennian who has spread a great many titles and duties on and off the battlefield. Two things were certain: One: His dedication to his country. And Two: Loyalty to his friends.
Dyarhk was under a workload at Camp Devotion. He managed the mail that called for reinforcements and aid, as well as keeping the Siovanui women from reaching critical mass. He also saved lives, organizing and running evacuation teams behind enemy lines. And still finding time to swing a sword against those who might strike him to the ground. None of these things could be called effortless, and on-top of it all, his batteries were depleting, so to speak, the longer he stayed away from Tirraru.
Every second to every minute here in the now contributed to a record, of staying out the longest he had ever been. It was no surprise he asked a favor of the dark therapy knight, Havelast.
?Locate Wyheree, see that she is safe.? he had requested of him. Two Ravenlocks, for that matter. Both listed as being involved in the war effort. Going about this was going to be no easy task, but after all, he was the person you gave tasks to when they were not easy.
His inquiries brought him back to Arcanum, the ever-changing battlefield. Many a lowly but trustworthy finger pointed him here, and cost him a pretty penny, not that it was currency from his own land. Kneeling before a rain-darkened block in the stone road, he crazed his gloveless fingertips over it with an examiner's touch. ?...Frost magic residue.? Havelast muttered, rising to scan the four corners of his cardinal directions on the off-chance he be attacked while investigating. The knight covered his tracks.
Many a named combatant had fought here, on-top of all the ground troops that marched over where children used to walk eagerly toward a day filled with learning. It sickened the knight's face to be here again, to be reminded what happened here, what still may be happening here. This was why he had waited for the cloak of night to carry out his search for the frost mage. And by his understanding, he was close.
One of the taller buildings had brought him to the end of his journey. A tower that had not yet been stunted by the ground-leveling of war. And it was here that the instrument he had been using to follow frost magic had resonated the loudest. A chilly chain link of blue, forged about a metal loop that it would shake from if in the presence of frost magic.
Havelast gazed up the building before looking at its glass door, caging darkness inside. ?Tch..!? he swallowed his fear, reached to his back, and placed his grip solidly onto the solid gold hilt his 4'4? sword.
This darkness was unusual, it unnerved him, and it was not like him to feel so. Proceeding forward, through a lobby and into a barren hall that amplified the sounds of himself, telling the lying darkness farther out that he was here. Havelast cursed his palm with his dark therapy, akin to a holy blessing, only not. But the magic did show itself when he ran that hand over his gauntlet, awakening fire seemingly from a slumber as it stood on the tiered steel and danced at a low.
His suspecting face shone and the gold of his hilt as he held his arm about like a lantern. The building was indeed empty, but his magic indicator read otherwise. He hushed it, folding the link over the loop in such a way that it would require manual correction before it might sound again. He needed ' ' some ' ' of his stealth back.
Down the hall, and presented a staircase, he began to ascend, one hulking boot after the other. His watchful eyes ever-peering up the stairs an extra fleet, his hand never leaving his sword. He would not be caught off-guard. At the door to the second floor, he unlocked his indicator, looking to it shake slightly more than it had downstairs. Still, not enough. He turned, pointing his fiery arm to the next fleet, ascending it.
The icy blue link frantically danced.
An enormous man, far taller than any to be messed with, passed from guard to guard, informant to informant, camp to camp. His dealings in his hands, coming out from his shady garb of the cloak and dagger sort. Such was the nature of covertness; such was the nature of the Lily of the Valley: an elite order of faceless agents, no longer valuable when it was known who they truly were.
But this man was known well. Havelast Dagger Sasc. An Adennian who has spread a great many titles and duties on and off the battlefield. Two things were certain: One: His dedication to his country. And Two: Loyalty to his friends.
Dyarhk was under a workload at Camp Devotion. He managed the mail that called for reinforcements and aid, as well as keeping the Siovanui women from reaching critical mass. He also saved lives, organizing and running evacuation teams behind enemy lines. And still finding time to swing a sword against those who might strike him to the ground. None of these things could be called effortless, and on-top of it all, his batteries were depleting, so to speak, the longer he stayed away from Tirraru.
Every second to every minute here in the now contributed to a record, of staying out the longest he had ever been. It was no surprise he asked a favor of the dark therapy knight, Havelast.
?Locate Wyheree, see that she is safe.? he had requested of him. Two Ravenlocks, for that matter. Both listed as being involved in the war effort. Going about this was going to be no easy task, but after all, he was the person you gave tasks to when they were not easy.
His inquiries brought him back to Arcanum, the ever-changing battlefield. Many a lowly but trustworthy finger pointed him here, and cost him a pretty penny, not that it was currency from his own land. Kneeling before a rain-darkened block in the stone road, he crazed his gloveless fingertips over it with an examiner's touch. ?...Frost magic residue.? Havelast muttered, rising to scan the four corners of his cardinal directions on the off-chance he be attacked while investigating. The knight covered his tracks.
Many a named combatant had fought here, on-top of all the ground troops that marched over where children used to walk eagerly toward a day filled with learning. It sickened the knight's face to be here again, to be reminded what happened here, what still may be happening here. This was why he had waited for the cloak of night to carry out his search for the frost mage. And by his understanding, he was close.
One of the taller buildings had brought him to the end of his journey. A tower that had not yet been stunted by the ground-leveling of war. And it was here that the instrument he had been using to follow frost magic had resonated the loudest. A chilly chain link of blue, forged about a metal loop that it would shake from if in the presence of frost magic.
Havelast gazed up the building before looking at its glass door, caging darkness inside. ?Tch..!? he swallowed his fear, reached to his back, and placed his grip solidly onto the solid gold hilt his 4'4? sword.
This darkness was unusual, it unnerved him, and it was not like him to feel so. Proceeding forward, through a lobby and into a barren hall that amplified the sounds of himself, telling the lying darkness farther out that he was here. Havelast cursed his palm with his dark therapy, akin to a holy blessing, only not. But the magic did show itself when he ran that hand over his gauntlet, awakening fire seemingly from a slumber as it stood on the tiered steel and danced at a low.
His suspecting face shone and the gold of his hilt as he held his arm about like a lantern. The building was indeed empty, but his magic indicator read otherwise. He hushed it, folding the link over the loop in such a way that it would require manual correction before it might sound again. He needed ' ' some ' ' of his stealth back.
Down the hall, and presented a staircase, he began to ascend, one hulking boot after the other. His watchful eyes ever-peering up the stairs an extra fleet, his hand never leaving his sword. He would not be caught off-guard. At the door to the second floor, he unlocked his indicator, looking to it shake slightly more than it had downstairs. Still, not enough. He turned, pointing his fiery arm to the next fleet, ascending it.
The icy blue link frantically danced.